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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28545288">press my words into your skin like gold leaves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altered_Karma/pseuds/Altered_Karma'>Altered_Karma</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, But SHhhhhh, Do not repost, Gods Walk Among Us AU, Jon is a God AU, M/M, Modern Fantasy, Oneshot, Real World and Fictional World Fusion, do not copy to another site, mildly hurt/comfort, very soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:20:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,981</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28545288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altered_Karma/pseuds/Altered_Karma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of aging paper and leather greets Jon like an old friend when he steps past the heavy oak doors. </p><p>They swish shut behind him, quiet and final in their heaviness, and the world around Jon narrows to the hoard of books before him. </p><p>He wanders the library, content in its shelves and it's knowledge, arriving finally at his table. Only...</p><p>Someone is already there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>181</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>press my words into your skin like gold leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfkeeper989/gifts">Wolfkeeper989</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to <a href="http://gothic-ivory.tumblr.com">gothic-ivory</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisuAlto/pseuds/RisuAlto">RisuAlto</a>, and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeYellMe/pseuds/TellMeYellMe">tellingandyelling</a> for looking through this and giving me all the necessary feedback.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The smell of aging paper and leather greets Jon like an old friend when he steps past the heavy oak doors. </p><p>They swish shut behind him, quiet and final in their heaviness, and the world around Jon narrows to the hoard of books before him. </p><p>He wanders through the shelves, back to the last place he’d been. One of the librarians restocking the books pauses in her stretch up to one of the higher shelves. “Oh! You’re back again early, aren’t you?”</p><p>Jon nods, still not sure what sort of face he should use to respond to her idle chatter. “Has that book on the Ruins of Ticheretlan arrived?” </p><p>The woman hums - Jon believes she introduced herself as Sasha previously? He doesn’t quite recall - and turns to contemplate her book trolley. After a few seconds, she turns back to him. “You know, I think it might have? You’ll have to go ask Tim at the front desk.”</p><p>Jon nods, and turns to do just that. </p><p>It’s still early, so aside from the librarians there’s not another soul in the library. Perhaps that explains why, when Jon gets within view of the front desk, nestled deep in the core of the library, ‘Tim’ is bobbing his head to whatever noise is coming in through his headphones. His eyes are closed, too, so it’s unlikely he even realizes Jon’s approached him.</p><p>He stands next to him, doing his best to exude his displeasure into the air, but after a minute of the man refusing to acknowledge him, Jon clears his throat as loudly as he can manage. </p><p>Tim jerks in his chair, his feet flying into the air from the chair they’re perched on before stomping to the ground. “Ack- Sorry! How can I- Oh, it’s you again. What’s up, man?”</p><p>Jon tries to keep his scowling to a minimum, and hopes only a fraction of it ends up on his face. “Yes. Your colleague said I might be able to pick up the book I reserved today?”</p><p>“The book?” He paws at the crystal monitor. “Right, yeah, ‘Unearthed and Rebuilt to Ruin: The Origins of Ticheretlan’s Magnificent Ending.’ Just got it in this morning from the library in Il Raum.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, that’s the one.” Jon’s been dying to get his hands on it, since he had been preoccupied with other matters when Ticheretlan was struck from the face of Klauveaux, and he’s eager to catch up.</p><p>Tim clicks his tongue, eyes still fixed on the screen. “One problem, mate. Looks like you’re not allowed to take it out of the library. Not that that’s a problem for you, eh?” Tim glances at him once more, eyes teasing and heavy in a weird way.</p><p>No matter, perhaps he’s just having a weird day. “Certainly. So where might I find it then?”</p><p>They stare at one another for a moment before Tim sighs and rises. “Just a mo’, have to go get it from the back.” He disappears from the desk into a dark room, and returns with a book that looks halfway to falling apart, thick and heavy and easily four-hundred pages long - a gold mine, as far as Jon is concerned. “Here you are. I don’t think I need to tell you to be careful with it, so just take this as your warning. Knowing you, you’ll have it done in the next few days.”</p><p>Jon accepts the book with both hands, and as soon as his fingers brush the hardened leather cover of the book, he can feel the years of knowledge seep into him through his fingertips. Nothing definite, just a tease of what is to come, but enough to whet Jon’s appetite all the same. “Thank you. I’ll just be over here, then.” </p><p>And without further ado, he absconds to a sunlit table in the corner of the nonfiction section, the same one he’s been using since he started visiting this library. </p><p>He opens the cover of the book, reading through the credits and the foreword, and then the book consumes him. Time flies, measured only by the shift of sunlight through the windows, moving from his right in the morning to his left as the evening stretches on. Still he sits, as the words come to life before him, telling tales of forges gifted from gods and the legends that came from them.</p><p>He is almost at the country’s peak when  someone taps him on the shoulder. Georgie, the afternoon librarian, is staring at him with understanding in her eyes. </p><p>The sun has set almost entirely.</p><p>“We’re closing for the evening. Unless you’re planning on partaking in the rituals…?” </p><p>Libraries, in addition to performing an important and free service to the public by way of information, serve also as temples to the various gods of knowledge, and usually begin their ceremonies at sundown in reverence to one of the more well known ones affiliated with sunset. </p><p>Jon has no interest in the workings and partaking of the gods, though, and departs with nary a word. People stream into the temple past him, clothed in flowing robes, hoods that conceal their faces,  jewelry and embroidery marking their loyalty. They pay him no mind, and he feels like a ghost walking amongst spirits. </p><p>He’ll be back tomorrow, though, because there is more yet to consume from the library. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>Images of forges blessed by gods, a land full of people with hands blackened from days before fires, and clouds of sands whisper almost silently as the last pages of the book draw to a close. The land as it exists now is a mess of ash from the fires and sands from the country to the north, and where before was a great city now only a small number of its people survive and continue on those ancient traditions. </p><p>It’s only taken him two days to read through the book and gleam from it what he could, and he spends the last hours searching through his reference materials for another topic to capture his fancy. A mote of interest rises at the ending legends about the Greeks and their unique interactions with their gods, so he jots down the relevant citation and begins carrying his haul of books back to the front desk.</p><p>Tim is there again, though much more alert this time. Jon grimaces at him over the stack of books, nearly up to his chin as they are, and the man wastes no time in coming around the counter to assist him. They get the books checked in and settled on the cart, and before Jon can abscond, Tim addresses him once more; the man’s a chatterbox who simply will not let him be.</p><p>“Figured you’d be done some time today. You really devour those books.  It is Jon, right?” Tim’s eyes run him up and down once more, heavy with something he doesn’t know how to name. “So, anything new to pique your curiosity? Or are you looking for recommendations?” </p><p>“Yes, that’s correct. If you’ve any recommendations, I’d be interested in hearing them.” The forges are a potential source of entertainment, but perhaps they’ll have something better in store. </p><p>“There’s a lot of that to choose from, then! I’ve been working my way through the writings of Hegel, on a dare from our darling Sasha, though I can’t say I recommend him. There’s an order that should get here tomorrow, something about entomology? That one might be reserved though... Oh, and, we’ve recently gotten a collection of Greek myths with images of the pottery used to maintain the legends as well as the accounts of Herodotus and Thucydides.” Jon's face must betray his interest, because Tim smiles at him knowingly. “Thought that one might be up your alley. Hang on, then.” </p><p>Jon shifts uneasily on his feet as Tim disappears in the back to root around through their reserved materials; he hates standing in the part of the library that actually sees foot traffic. It’s not yet late enough in the day for him to consider calling it quits, but at the same time he considers starting tomorrow with a fresh mind and a new book, and suddenly the idea of departing a bit early is rather appealing. </p><p>He’s just resolved himself to gathering some reference materials and leaving them at his table - he’s done it before with little issue - when Tim returns with an oversized book, one that is nearly as big as his chest, and half as thick as Jon’s hand is wide.  </p><p>In other words, it definitely looks like something to tackle in the morning. Jon can hardly wait. </p><p>He carefully accepts the book from Tim, hoisting it up to his chest when the weight of it takes him by surprise. He bows his head in thanks, but already his mind has turned to the book in his arms. </p><p>He <em> could </em>read and walk. He knows the way to his table well enough…</p><p>No, he will savor the anticipation and wait until tomorrow. </p><p>But his mind is already trying to wriggle its way into the pages of the book, and it’s with a sigh of finality that he sets it down on the table and goes off in search of other books that might supplement his reading tomorrow. There’s one on pottery making in ancient civilizations, several on the history of oration in ancient Greece, one compendium of several versions of the most famous Greek myths… For every book he finds useful, three more cry out at him for their topics or potential relation, and he often has to run back to his spot to drop off his latest armful of books, just to go back and collect more. </p><p>The search takes him the rest of the afternoon, and he leaves just as the last of the parishioners arrive for their evening services, much later than he usually allows himself to stay. He ends up bumping into a couple of them in his distraction - it was dark and he’d thought he’d seen something sinister crawling in the shadows - but only of them has the grace to apologize. </p><p>“S-Sorry, didn’t see you there! Tiny thing, aren’t you…?” The man says, his hand steadying and large on Jon’s arm. </p><p>Jon grunts; it’s unnecessary for people to comment on his height, though it seems as if the rest of the world begs to differ. “Unreasonable coming from someone so tall, wouldn’t you think? Excuse me.” </p><p>“Wait-” But Jon has already lingered long enough, and he steals into the night without a backwards glance. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>There’s a man sitting at his table.</p><p>Moreover, he’s a large man, though his hunched shoulders and closely tucked arms might fool someone less insightful than Jon as to the true nature of his size. </p><p>The stranger is clutching a book in front of him, and his eyes move across the page as though he’s devouring the words, and occasionally his throat will bob and his lips will move as he traces a line from the book. It looks to be some book on poetry, one type of writing that Jon has never found much satisfaction in. He supposes not everyone can share his good taste. </p><p>All of Jon’s books remain untouched at the side of the table. There’s no doubt that he’d be able to work just as well as previously in spite of this intrusion. Intellectually, Jon knows there’s no reason to feel so put off about someone also wanting a bit of sun whilst enjoying a good book. </p><p>But, there’s someone at <em> his </em>table. </p><p>Jon doesn’t appreciate having his space invaded. </p><p>Still, it’s a public library, and as much as he’d like to, it isn’t his place to snip at somebody for sitting at a table or to get territorial over the patch of sunlight streaming in through the window. </p><p>With a sigh, Jon steps more into the area beyond the shelves, making his way silently to his chair. He allows himself one huff of annoyance before turning to his hoard of books.</p><p>The man doesn’t react to his presence in the slightest, just turns another page with enthralled eyes. </p><p>Jon allows himself another sign of his grievance, a roll of the eyes, before turning to the book in front of him.</p><p>It looks just as big as it did yesterday, and as he opens up the front cover he ends up needing to push a stack of books to the side just to make room for it. </p><p>He is very nearly swallowed entirely by the images of the pots, and the detailed explanations associated with each image. He pages through the accounts of Greek myths, and references the more complete and detailed renditions of the myths portrayed on the various ancient vases. </p><p>But it’s only a near thing, the total consumption of his mind by the books he reads, because there’s this buzzing sensation of someone invading his space.</p><p>Ah, yes, he has company, doesn’t he? </p><p>Every time his books threaten to swallow him, the man at the other end of the table will shift or sigh, and Jon will be forcefully pulled from his readings to glance over at him. By the fourth or fifth time this has happened, Jon starts feeling truly peeved, and he very nearly says something when the stranger’s sneeze interrupts the peaceful atmosphere of their little corner of the library. </p><p>Even when he doesn’t do much, he’s distracting, and by the time the sun has risen to just above the window’s view, Jon’s about ready to write the day off as a loss and leave early in the hopes that the man won’t be here again tomorrow; if he comes  extra early maybe he can claim the table beforehand and avoid this whole mess entirely…</p><p>“Oh, dear, sorry! How long have you been there?”</p><p>Dear lord, it’s the voice from last night. Of course it is. </p><p>Jon does his best to keep the grimace from his face, but from the tightness around his mouth he doubts he succeeds entirely. The man has closed his book and is staring at him with eyes wide behind his round glasses. His cheeks are flushed a healthy pink, and his full mouth hangs slightly ajar. </p><p>“I’ve been here all morning, thanks for noticing.” His voice is perhaps a bit more sour than is warranted, but he’s been drawn out of his books too much to really feel poorly about it. </p><p>“O-Oh, well, then, apologies?” Jon sees him glance around the table, like he’s just noticed all of the books Jon had scattered about the place. “Research for some sort of paper? That’s an awful lot of books...” </p><p>Oh great, now he wants to do small talk. If this spot weren’t so nice and Jon hadn’t been here first, he might just consider taking a different table just to avoid the man. “Merely a passing fancy.”</p><p>“In what? Graduate level-” The man tips one of the reference books towards him. “Greek Mythology?” Something in his eyes lights up. “How ironic!” He hoists his own book up, something by the name of <em> Sunblind </em>, like Jon would have any idea what that means. “This is a modern retelling of the legend of Icarus.”</p><p>“I see.” It’s not actually ironic, Jon wants to say, but most people don’t take well to being corrected and he doesn’t actually care if this person knows the difference between irony and coincidence. He’s more than content to leave this man to his misconceptions if it means he can get back to Herodotus.</p><p>Jon tries to hide in his book subtly, slouching down and setting it upright to peruse, but a hand gets thrown towards him before he can complete his retreat. “I’m Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”</p><p>Jon doesn’t shake his hand, and keeps his eyes firmly on his book. Maybe if he stares hard enough, Martin will take the hint and leave him be. “Jonathan Sims. Jon will do.”</p><p>Evidently it works, because Martin leans back in his chair and sets his book aside. Jon watches from his periphery as he pulls another rather lean book from the small pile at his elbow. <em> Sunchoked </em>, it reads, and Jon suspects it’s by the same author as his previous book. </p><p>(Given Jon’s reasons for preferring this spot above all others in the library, he finds his tablemate’s choice of reading to be a little ironic, but banishes the noise of amusement he might’ve made were he a lesser man.)</p><p>That’s the last of Martin’s idle chatter, for a while. He is absorbed once more into his book, every time Jon’s eyes drift upwards to check on him, and in the peace Jon even manages to get a decent chunk of reading done. Two more hours pass in silence, and by the time the midday chimes sound most of Jon’s irritation has sloughed and melted away.</p><p>From the corner of his eye he sees Martin place a worn strip of ribbon in his book before shutting it and setting it silently to the side. Jon darts his gaze down just as the man looks up, but he likely isn’t fast enough. “So, that’s the lunch bell. Want to go get s-something for lunch?”</p><p>Jon, who has never ‘gotten lunch’ in his whole life, scoffs lightly. “No, I’m quite alright.” </p><p>“O-Oh, well, then, this is me. Perhaps I’ll see you around?” Martin is wringing his hands now, for some godsawful reason that Jon doesn’t care to discern. </p><p>“Perhaps,” Jon allows. </p><p>He leaves Jon alone then, thankfully, though he departs with a silence that Jon finds a little unnerving; no one so large has any right moving so quietly. Probably explains why Jon ran into him last night, though. </p><p>No matter, he’s gone now, and Jon can get back to his books properly. Which he does, and soon the sun is setting to his left.</p><p>Jon slips out of the library quietly, thinking no more of Martin.</p><p>And he doesn’t think of him again, until he’s arrived early to the library the next morning, only to find his table absent of any form of company whatsoever. Which is strange of him to notice, really, given that that’s the table’s natural existence and Jon is usually too early to be outpaced to this spot (minus the one time yesterday, but that’s the first and only time it will happen.)</p><p>Jon remains wary throughout the day, and hardly leaves his table, but by late afternoon it seems like his unwanted companion might not be coming. Good, perhaps he’s found something else to occupy his time other than frivolous tragedy (he may have taken a look at the books and devoured them inside of an hour for scraps of anything useful; they were just left on the table, of course he looked through them!) or better yet, found a different table to haunt. </p><p>Jon’s interloper doesn’t return the next day. Or the day after that.</p><p>By the fourth day, the intrusion is all but a forgotten memory, and Jon begins relaxing his guard.</p><p>Which of course means that Martin is waiting for him at his table. </p><p>He’s still working through the book of pottery, though he’s definitely nearing the end. He’s estimating how far he’ll make it today and whether he needs to start considering a new avenue of research as he walks towards his table. He’s set his rucksack on the ground and gotten himself all settled in his chair, books opened to their relevant pages, when a delicate cough brings him out of his thoughts. </p><p>“Uh, hi Jon.” Martin’s back. Jon stares at him, and Martin stares back, and for a moment neither of them move. Then Martin starts, and his face reddens, and he’s ducking away from Jon. “Sorry, I remembered that right, didn’t I? It’s- Your name is Jon, yeah?”</p><p>“Yes.” Jon’s an optimistic fool; Martin looks like he’s been there since before Jon sat down. </p><p>“Great! I mean, nice, yeah, cool. Uhh.” Martin points a finger at Jon’s book. “You look nearly done there. Any good?”</p><p>Jon can <em> feel </em>the tension collecting in his jaw as he resists grinding his teeth. “Yes.”</p><p>Martin hums happily, and peers over to look at the current spread of images. “<em> ‘The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance. </em>’” That. That was Aristotle. “Ironic, when it comes to pottery, but, well… I’m glad that you’re enjoying it.” Martin sighs. “For all their faults, the Greeks really had a knack for articulation. Wonder when we lost that-”</p><p>“You know Aristotle?” The words are out of his mouth before he can regret them; it’s not like he actually wants to discuss this with the interloper. </p><p>Martin starts, and his head jerks up to meet Jon’s incredulous gaze. “Oh, well, yes, I study ph-philosophy and poetry.” </p><p>Jon feels his mouth hanging just a bit ajar, and forces himself to close it. </p><p>“I know, I know, I don’t really seem the type, but they just have a way with words you know? If it weren’t so difficult I’d never speak out of meter.”</p><p>“I see.” Jon considers his book. “I’m nearly done with this, would you- would you want it afterwards?”</p><p>Martin blinks, and Jon realizes it’s probably a stupid question - he was just making small talk, haven’t you learned <em> anything </em>in the thousands of years around here? - when he beams. “Oh absolutely! Pottery isn’t my thing, but those myths? Such good inspiration.”</p><p>Jon relaxes. “Ah, so you write as well?” And there he goes, offering more small talk.</p><p>As it happens, yes, Martin writes. Some of it’s poetry, but most of it is, by Martin’s own admission, stories written in the worst sort of purple prose. Thankfully, he seems as wary of sharing it as Jon is of actually reading it, so he at least escapes that embarrassment. But the rest of the afternoon passes like that, with the occasional interruption for small talk or insight as Jon can pull from Martin’s admittedly vast pool of knowledge on philosophy, mythology, and trends in literature throughout human history. Jon can’t even consider it a waste of time, because Martin’s knowledge had saved him several trips to the reference section that he might’ve needed to make otherwise. They even talk on through lunch, Martin munching away on a sandwich from home as he reads some lines from his book aloud; it’s sappy drivel at best, but Jon can see the source material ringing throughout the words. </p><p>The sun is setting by the time Jon has had his fill, and from the way Martin has been fidgeting for the last hour, he’s about done, too. Jon quietly begins organizing his books into stacks to be ferried up to the front desk, when Martin’s back cracks audibly from his stretching. </p><p>“Sorry! Sorry. That was really loud, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Jon snorts. “Quite, should I call an ambulance?”</p><p>“Shove off!” Martin points at his books, which Jon had been attempting to settle into neat stacks by topic and library organization system. “Want a hand carrying those? I need to move around a bit before I can even think about attending ceremony tonight.” </p><p>Ah, that’s right. Jon’s silence must betray him, because Martin looks over at him in concern, as they walk back up to the front desk. “It’s alright if you don’t go to that sort of thing, you know? To be honest, I don’t even really go because I’m religious.” Martin ducks his head. “It’s just to have somewhere to go and people to meet on a regular basis, you know?”</p><p>“Perhaps, though I must say I usually prefer my books.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Shit, he’s probably taken that the wrong way. “Not that I don’t enjoy company! It’s just, well, I have other things to do with my time.”</p><p>“Like develop your plans for world domination using all those books you read on-” he peers down at the cover at the book on top of the stack in his arms. “-forges and kilns in ancient Greece?”</p><p>“You’re certainly one to speak, Mr. I-read-depressing-modern-poetry-about-Greek-myths-in-modern-contexts.”</p><p>“Oh yeah, I’ll definitely be taking over the world with that one. By dawn tomorrow, or I’ll eat my left heel.” That sets them both off, and they spend the next few moments chuckling their way through the library. </p><p>“Jon! Martin!” Tim’s voice, much louder and nearer than Jon was prepared for, stops Jon cold in his tracks; Martin beside him jumps and makes a noise that could be confused for a mouse. Tim is smirking at them from around his desk, hip propped against it. </p><p>Martin, predictably, brightens. “Oh hi there!”</p><p>Tim nods at the stacks of books in their arms, and it seems less like a casual gesture and more like something one indulges a child in, which sets Jon bristling. “See you’ve run into our resident bookworm. How’d he get you doing his manual labor?” Tim steals Martin’s stack, setting it haphazardly up on the counter. </p><p>“It’s no trouble, r-really! I couldn’t leave him with all those books without offering to help.”</p><p>“Sure, you couldn’t.” Tim’s eyes cut to Jon, who realizes he’s still holding his books like a loon and hastens to set them down. Tim’s eyes don’t move from him, though, and Jon can feel his hackles rising; Tim’s friendly, but just a bit too familiar for his tastes. Like now; he’s grinning like they’ve shared some sort of inside joke, only Jon has no idea what the punchline is supposed to be. “You got more books, right?”</p><p>“Y-Yeah, we should go get them!”</p><p>“That’s alright, Martin, I’ve troubled you quite enough. Go stretch your legs. I’ll see you in a couple days, I presume?” If he came back after four days to the same spot, then it’s reasonable, Jon thinks, to expect him to continue this pattern. </p><p>“O-Oh, well, yeah! I can’t spend all day every day here like you, but I can usually spare a morning or an afternoon. I’ll-I’ll see you at the table, then?”</p><p>“Yes, that’s where I’ll be. See you, Martin.” </p><p>“Bye, Jon.”</p><p>Tim is still watching this with that strange, amused gleam in his eyes, and Jon hurries to hide back within the solidness of the bookshelves. By the time he makes it back with his next and last armful of books, Martin has disappeared. </p><p>Tim is still there, though.</p><p>“Hiya, boss.”</p><p>“Tim.” Jon grunts. Pauses. “...I don’t work here.”</p><p>Tim shrugs, like that hardly matters to him. “With how often you’re here and how much you read, we ought to hire you. I already consider you part of the team, our ‘Research and Reference Agent.’”</p><p>“I can hardly perform such duties alone, so I have no idea what you mean?”</p><p>“Mhm. Say, which of the forges in the world creates the best glassware?”</p><p>“That’d be the forge of Ptah in Valenzstraad.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought. So, what did you think of Martin?”</p><p>Jon stumbles; he can’t help it, there’s absolutely no following Tim’s train of thought. The last of his books nearly fall out of his arms, and only the counter saves them from their grounding. “Where is this coming from?”</p><p>“Well, given that this is the second time he’s sat at your table and you haven’t run him off in tears, I’d say you prolly have some not-so-negative opinions of him, am I right?”</p><p>That’s preposterous; Martin’s just a good table companion who can match Jon in his pursuit for knowledge… Ah. “Yes, he’s adequate company for my pursuit of the world’s secrets.”</p><p>“Adequate. Right.” Under his breath, in a voice that Jon thinks he probably isn’t supposed to hear, Tim mutters, “<em> Christ </em>, Martin’s got his work cut out for him.”</p><p>Whatever that’s supposed to mean.</p><p>None of Jon’s business, in all likelihood, so… “I’ll just- be taking my leave then?”</p><p>“Sure thing. See you tomorrow, Jon.” Jon gets halfway to the door before Tim speaks again. “Bet you can’t wait till Inder, huh?”</p><p>Inder. Four days from now, on the dot. Jon supposes he can deal with only one day in every several being intruded upon in this way. </p><p>He hurries out the door before the evening crowd - or Word forbid, Martin - can appear.</p><p>And true to his word, four days later, Martin joins him partway through the day. Jon sees him walk into their alcove this time, so when the man settles down at his chair, Jon acknowledges him with a grunt and stays buried in his book, now about the Isles of Scotland and their histories. Martin, as it seems, has other ideas. </p><p>“Afternoon, Jon!” </p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>“Reading about something entirely different, aren’t we? The- Scottish Chiefs?” Martin hums, a thoughtful frown on his face that Jon thinks makes his face look ridiculously pouty. “What’s that about?”</p><p>“The various islands around Scotland were really my primary interest, but this entails the presence of people on those isles, among other things.”</p><p>Martin’s face hasn’t fixed itself back into its usual affability, so Jon braces for another meaningless question. “Does it- does it say anything about where the MacGuffins lived? Should be a noble family, in that area, but I haven’t any idea where they might be from.”</p><p>Or not. “As a matter of fact, no. The MacGuffins are a mainland family that mostly live in the lowlands of Scotland.” Jon would be content to let that be the end of it, but unfortunately it seems like today is going to be one of his more curiosity driven days. “I’m almost afraid to know, but why do you ask?”</p><p>Martin chuckles, with a strange, wavering undertone to his voice that reads like nerves or anxiety to Jon’s unpracticed ears. “Ah, well, ran into some people who claimed to be nobles of some sort from Scotland, but I’m a fair hand at Scots, so it just- felt weird being unable to understand them?”</p><p>MacGuffins, Lowlands…. Aha! “That would be because they speak Doric Scots, which is even more divergent from standard British English than usual Scots is. How’d you get their names?” </p><p>“Oh, I, uhm, usually spend my free time working in hospitality services, and was checking them into their hotel.” </p><p>“Huh. Intriguing.” As Martin sets about prepping his side of the table, pulling out three different notebooks and three style of writing utensil for some godforsaken reason, Jon turns slowly back to his book. He tries for all of three seconds to parse the words on the page, which were enthralling but a minute ago, before sighing and turning back to Martin. “Martin, sorry, you worked in hospitality?”</p><p>“Wha- Oh, oh, yes, I did. Usually over summer and winter hols, mostly.” </p><p>“I bet you’ve met all sorts of interesting people then.” Jon can feel the stories locked behind Martin’s tongue like static in the air. It’s been a while since he’s gotten information from more than a sheaf of papers. </p><p>His books lay forgotten for the rest of the day, as his attention stays rooted on Martin and his experiences in hospitality.</p><p>And for some reason, when Jon takes his leave for the day, books still strewn about, he finds himself drafting more questions to ask Martin, who has apparently moved many times around the country and has seen much of what there is to see and who thusly has many stories to share. A living source is so much more useful than a static book, for all that he is a lover of them and their permanence. </p><p>He makes a pretense the next couple of times Martin visits the library, holding up whatever books he’s reading for a few moments, moving his eyes across the page like he’s reading intently, but really, Jon finds his attention unable to settle on the words whenever Martin finds his way into the alcove. Once Martin has said his greetings and settled into his seat, materials out, Jon gives him a few minutes of peace before bridging the silence with his questions, to which Martin always has the most <em> interesting </em>answers. </p><p>Part of why Martin makes for such delightful company, Jon realizes after Martin’s fifth day with him, is that he has opinions on everything, if only they can be drawn out of him, and what he doesn’t know, he’s eager to learn. </p><p>Maybe most incredible is just how damn clever Martin is, something that Jon hadn’t really noticed at first glance. The way he snaps up information, processes it, and spits out a logical conclusion is remarkable, really, and it must be some other issue keeping him from finishing his degree. </p><p>This revelation comes on the heels of Jon’s tongue blundering on without him and challenging Martin when he best ought not to, partially in disbelief and partially out of burning curiosity.</p><p>“Say, Martin, why are you here? So often?” </p><p>Martin replies without looking away from the sheet of paper he’s scratching away at. “You’re one to talk about often, Jon.” Then Martin looks up at him properly, rising from his horribly slouched posture. “And, well, we’re friends now, aren’t we? You’re always here, so of course I’d come here too, plus I love to read, and it’s not like I have anything better to do on my days off. And, I’d say I’ve come to know you rather well, if I do say so myself.” </p><p>“I don’t know that I’d say well...” They have only met in the library - in spite of Martin’s attempts otherwise - and when they do speak it’s mostly about whatever topic has struck Jon’s fancy for the day. What could Martin possibly know about him?</p><p>Martin’s eyes begin twinkling, and Jon feels something work its way into his throat. “Want me to prove it to you?”</p><p>Sure. What does Jon have to lose? </p><p>“You’ve been here reading for about five months now, every day, without fail; I remember Tim talking about how often you came, and how ridiculously consistent you were. The fact that you can spend all day everyday here, without pen and paper in hand, means you aren’t here as a graduate student, but simply someone satisfying your curiosity. On top of that, seeing that you can <em> afford </em> to spend all day here, you must come from a family with money or something that allows you to ignore all mortal needs, like income or <em> eating </em> ,” here Martin looks purposefully at the empty sack sitting just under table at Jon’s feet, devoid of food or any indication Jon might have partaken in lunch, “which means that you’re probably not wanting for much, even if you are stubborn about wanting for anything at all, which you <em> are </em>.”</p><p>Precisely at that moment, Jon’s stomach chooses to growl. Martin’s smile goes lopsided into decidedly smirk-like territory.</p><p>It’s not what Martin thinks, but he allows the misconception to stand. He can't muster the composure to refute the accusations, anyhow. </p><p>“You read like a mad man because you have a burning need for knowledge. If there were places that better served that hunger of yours, you’d be there instead of here. But there’s no bigger library in the world than this one, nor one quite as important, so of course you’re here. In fact, I’d wager you’re not from anywhere near here at all!” Jon’s cheeks redden - they’ve always given him away so easily - and Martin’s eyes dip down before returning to his own. “Got it in one, huh? <span>Tim said you’d showed up out of the blue a few weeks ago, and that you were here all the time, to the point of being here more than the librarians. You probably drifted here from some other library, huh? That sort of consistency only comes from a man who breathes Lord Eruditius’ word like it’s air, so if we haven’t seen you before then you must’ve blown in from somewhere far afield.</span>” </p><p>Ah, Jon had been wrong. </p><p>Martin’s a words-damned poet after all.</p><p>“Need I continue?” That damnable smile shouldn’t suit Martin’s face half so well as it does. </p><p>With a show like that, it’s little wonder that Jon feels comfortable ending his suspicion and underestimation of Martin’s abilities. Where once before he found Martin’s presence to be an intrusion, now he feels absolutely no disdain about sharing his space with the man. In fact, Jon finds himself engaging with Martin and soliciting his opinion just as often as Martin addresses him. For once, it seems, Jon has met someone who rivals him in his pursuit for knowledge. </p><p>And just like clockwork, Martin becomes a part of Jon’s routine, a welcome cloud on a hot sunny day. He looks forward to the days Martin visits him in his small corner of the library, and finds the space a little colder when it’s just Jon alone. It strikes him, out of the blue, that over the course of the past few months, Jon has come to treasure and value Martin’s presence and opinions, to the point of wishing he could come just a little more often. </p><p>But Martin’s a busy man, with a life that exists outside of the library, and where Jon might be fine to wile away his days in words, Martin isn’t the sort to stay cooped up forever. Jon does, <em> occasionally </em>, join him for lunch, at a small and cosy diner whose proprietor treats Martin like her own grandson. They make delicious ham salad sandwiches. </p><p>In his weaker moments, Jon finds himself feeling incredibly grateful for Martin’s recent intrusion to his life. He’s spent almost all of his time until now alone and isolated, content with his books and the way things were. At those times, he can admit to the depth of his own isolation, and just how much he doesn’t wish to go back to those days. Jon calls it, privately, his own little enlightenment. </p><p>He very carefully tucks that away though; it wouldn’t do to tell Martin that. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>And then, on a cool Baunder day, partway into autumn and nearing six months since they first met, Martin doesn’t appear as scheduled.  </p><p>Jon spends all day alone at his table. It isn’t until the sunlight is burning into the dark of his hair that he realizes just how late Martin is. He sets his book down and looks around their alcove, but no, there’s no sign that Jon was simply overly engrossed in his book. He knew what day it was, but he’s always relied on the sounds of Martin’s shuffling to bring him out of his book-induced trances. So that means... </p><p>Martin just... hadn’t come today. </p><p>And he doesn’t come any day after that.</p><p>Jon despairs of ever seeing him again, by the third month. He keeps his eyes open, thousands and thousands of them, in every town, but there’s no trace of Martin Blackwood anywhere. </p><p>He reads, yes, but it’s not with the same fervor he did. He can’t ask for a second opinion now, or try to explain something to a willing listener, or even engage in thoughtful discussion; if it isn’t Martin, there’s no point. It’s just Jon and his books and his Knowledge, and the isolation that once comforted him now burns. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>There’s a subdued air to the library when Jon approaches a bit past sunrise. </p><p>Jon’s been feeling under the weather since Martin first stopped coming to the library, but this is the first time the library itself has reflected his attitude. He takes two seconds to consider whether he’s having an effect on the building’s atmosphere, before shaking his head. No, if that were the case, this invisible lead weight would’ve shown just as soon as Jon realized Martin wasn’t coming back.</p><p>This must be something else. </p><p>It’s with this thought that Jon cautiously steps inside the library. The warm rays of sunlight feel cold in the building, and the usually comforting and familiar smell of leather books and aging paper tastes stale and unsettling. It’s the first time ever that Jon’s felt unwelcome in a library - a library, his domain, especially one he’s spent so much time in! It’s preposterous - but here it is. </p><p>He can tell the librarians feel it too; Sasha and Tim are standing near the front desk, and from the tense set of their shoulders and the way their eyes furtively glance around, he can tell that they sense it too. </p><p>Perhaps it’s their paranoia, but both of their heads snap to him as the door shuts behind him, and as one they stride up to him. Sasha calls out as she approaches, “Hey, Jon!”</p><p>“Sasha, Tim. What seems to be the problem?” He isn’t sure about either of them, so it’s best that he plays the oblivious patron for the moment. </p><p>They stop just a few feet short of him, sharing a confused glance. Tim says, “Jon can you not-”</p><p>They have more pressing matters to deal with. Jon cuts him off. “If you mean the strange air to the library today, then yes, I can sense it. Have either of you any idea what might have caused it?”</p><p>Tim’s face brightens a bit, though it falls again almost immediately. “Figures the Lord of Enlightenment would favor you, even if you don’t go to ceremony.” Word, Tim really has no idea, does he? “We aren’t sure what’s caused it, only that it started when we opened an hour ago. But you’re the only person to have come in; we’ve been watching the entrance.”</p><p>A wave of <em> something </em>washes over the room, and all of them shudder. Jon gets a taste of the energy as it lingers like smoke, and suddenly Jon realizes what this is.</p><p>Tim in particular reels back a step. “Yeah, no, not today, no thank you.” He turns to Jon. “I’m sorry, I think we should probably close up for the day until we can deal with this. Maybe tonight’s meeting will purify it…”</p><p>Well, that won’t do. Jon refuses to be run out of his own domain just because Peter Lukas has decided to come and make a nuisance of himself. “Mind if I take a look around before you do? Grab a book?”</p><p>Tim snorts, but Sasha smiles hesitantly. “You think you know what this is?” </p><p>“I have my suspicions.” </p><p>Sasha eyes him with something like Knowledge in her eyes, and grabs Tim by the arm; Jon watches her brow uncrease and knows he’s just lost his bet with Elias. “Then, by all means. We’ll call for you when we’re ready to lockup. Come on, Tim.” </p><p>Jon watches her with something approaching exasperation, and for once he lets the greyness in the air drain the feeling from him. Just for a second. Then he realizes what a dumb idea that is, and forces the fog back out. </p><p>The sense of emptiness is heavy and dense everywhere, so he can’t pinpoint where Lukas is hiding and has to physically find him, so Jon begins prowling the shelves of the library, following them around the first floor counterclockwise. He gets a flash of <em> empty </em>deep in his being as he draws near to his and Martin’s alcove; finally, he’s got something!</p><p>He stalks up the adjacent bookshelf, silent and predatory like hasn’t been in a long time, until he’s just able to peer around the side. </p><p>The first thing that really catches him is the way his breath just- freezes, in his chest. Like he’s inhaled liquid nitrogen and it’s adhered to his insides. Then, it’s the moisture in the air, heavy and still and haunted, because that can’t be good for the books!</p><p>Finally his eyes trace the fog to its source, which turns out to be a man. A man who isn’t Lukas. A man who is quite familiar, actually. </p><p>Jon can hardly believe it. All this time gone, and, “...Martin?”</p><p>There’s no response; and instead Martin - or the being who looks just like him, Jon can’t quite tell yet - shuffles a bit and turns the page of the book he’s apparently reading. </p><p>Jon takes a few steps closer, still wary of this creature that’s brought such chilling solitude into his library. “Martin? It’s really you, right? You’ve been gone for so long, we thought- I thought- Well-”</p><p>There’s still no response. Jon places a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and finally, the man jumps. The air begins clearing a little as well, fog evaporating and weak sunlight streaming into their little hideaway once more. He looks up at Jon, and this close Jon can see the greyed undertones and exhaustion that drags on his face like a millstone. Under Jon’s hand he feels cool and almost waifish, for all that he’s still rather large. Like Jon’s hand could slip right through him, if he pushed just a little harder. “You- You startled me!”</p><p><em> Even his voice sounds thin and scattered </em>. “Martin, are you alright? You’ve been gone for nearly three months.”</p><p>“Three months… Has it really.” Martin won’t meet his gaze, and for the Knowledge in him Jon can’t tell whether it’s a deliberate decision or an absent one; Martin doesn’t quite seem entirely present. “That’s quite some time.”</p><p>He slumps a little more in his chair, staring absently into the shelves. Jon remembers his duty and does another scan of the place, hand braced firmly on Martin’s shoulder, but it seems that Martin is the only person here exuding this horrible loneliness. Jon looks down at him, checking to make sure he’s better. </p><p>“Martin, I have to go tell Tim and Sasha what’s going on. Can you stay here for a moment? Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”</p><p>“Will do, Jon.” There’s very little if any inflection to his voice. Jon holds back a shudder, and hopes he’ll be able to undo whatever’s been done to Martin. </p><p>He hurries back out into the central area of the library, where he sees Tim and Sasha hovering nervously by their desk. They straighten out of their wilted postures and look at him hopefully. </p><p>“Lo- Jon? Did you find anything?”</p><p>“Yeah, it appears as though something’s gotten its hooks into Martin.” He knows who, but he’d rather not breathe that into existence around people who might know what it means. </p><p>“Martin! He’s here?” Tim grimaces. “He’s the one doing this, is he? I didn’t even see him come in...”</p><p>“It appears as though he was able to come in unnoticed under the influence of this thing. I’m going to work on him, but it’d still probably be best if you closed. Would you two mind if we remained here?” If not, Jon can always sneak back in, but if his suspicions are right...</p><p>“Of course not, Jon. You may remain for however long you like, especially to help someone. We’d never dream of standing in your way.” Sasha bows her head, and he can tell it’s going to be much more annoying to deal with Sasha now that she’s in the know. Then her head comes back up and he has something new to regret: the smirk on her face. “I know you’ll have Martin right as rain soon.” She takes him by the shoulders and starts gently nudging him back towards the bookshelves. Jon doesn’t resist, and soon enough he’s wading through fog.</p><p>Martin hasn’t moved at all from where Jon last left him; he’s listing to the side and staring blankly at the bookshelf. It seems that he’s far more aware of his surroundings than he was before, however, because he speaks before Jon gets the chance to address him again. “I was thinking, you’re smart, right, Jon? You read a lot of books?” </p><p>“Martin, we met in a library. <em> Yes, </em>I read books.”</p><p>“You were reading about Greek mythology when we met, right?” Martin’s eyes aren’t moving, so Jon knows he’s no longer reading. “What about others?”</p><p>“You mean the Norse? Egyptian?” </p><p>Martin hums, and then a beat later nods. “Yeah, that. Know any that might’ve done, well, this to me? Maybe a, like a man, one that has something to do with the sea?”</p><p>Jon knows very well who's done this to Martin, and will be dealing with him accordingly, but he doesn’t want to let Martin know that. “The fog could be the Féth fíada, but they usually only use it to hide from people, not draw them in. There’s not much about it in mythology, to be honest.” Jon pretends to think, frowning down at the table ferociously to sell it. “Oh, but there is one member of the Timorean pantheon who is often associated with fog, Solus,”</p><p>“Yeah? Timorean, like Lord Eruditius?” Martin says, in a way that would sound absent if Martin weren’t dealing with Lukas’ curse. “Tell me more?”</p><p>“Solus, the god of solitude, known for his sailboat and the fog that dogs his steps. By nature he isn’t a widely known god, but many a hermit and traveler pay homage to him, apparently hoping that the blessing of solitude will grant them safe passage.”</p><p>Which is a reasonable thought, if only it didn’t guarantee no one would be past to help you should you become stranded. </p><p>“What sort of god is he, this Solus?”</p><p>Jon thinks. “Neutral. He’s not really good or bad, only follows his own whims. He listens to no one, but gets involved very often in the affairs of humans and gods and demons alike. Some have called him a trickster.” Including Jon; between his capriciousness and his whimsy, Jon can’t really think of a better word, even if he’s also largely indifferent to the trouble he causes. </p><p>Martin sighs, and lays face down on the table. “So, the likely suspect? How do we- <em> I </em>get rid of this... horrid feeling?” </p><p>“Well, there’s no magical cure unfortunately. You’ve simply got to endure being around people, maybe reconnect to a different god. That should weaken Solus’ influence on you.” An idea occurs to Jon, and he already hates it, but it might be the best way to kickstart Martin’s recovery process. “Want to go to ceremony with me?” It’s a little redundant to go to something that’s ostensibly about yourself, but Jon will suck it up if it means helping Martin recover. </p><p>Something alive grows in Martin’s eyes; his confusion appears to be beating back Lukas’ fog. “You… You don’t do ceremony. Everyone’s told me.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve always thought reading books was the best form of worship-” Liar. “But you need to be around people, so I’ll go with you.” And just to seal the deal, Jon holds out his hand.</p><p>Martin takes it gratefully, and with a heave Jon pulls him to his feet. </p><p>Jon can see the haze like a physical lead weight around Martin, and it’s through this lens that Martin peers down at him, now a full head and shoulders above Jon. “Do you- know how ceremony even works?” His mouth drops in a big, fatigued yawn. “Do you have everything?”</p><p>Jon would shake his head; under siege from the god of solitude, and Martin still insists upon worrying about him. “Yes, Martin. In spite of my lack of interest in participating, I know very well how these things go.” He’s even got a crystal and everything. “Shall we? I should probably let Georgie know to expect us later on-” </p><p>Time in Solus’ fog is weird, Because as soon as Jon draws Martin out of the little area he’d been lingering in, the lighting shifts, going from early morning to late afternoon.</p><p>“-tonight. Or, right now I suppose.”</p><p>There’s no one anywhere to be seen. Georgie is usually somewhere around the front area, and there are other librarians throughout the place, but the entire space feels like a ghost town.</p><p>“Hello?” Jon calls into the emptiness, one hand firmly at Martin’s wrist. “Georgie?”</p><p>“Jon?” Her voice calls back, but it’s faint and muffled strangely. “Is that you?”</p><p>“Yes? Where are you?” John grimaces over at Martin, whose gaze is now locked on the cart of books permanently installed at the front desk. </p><p>A figure steps out of the back area, the request and reservation section if Jon’s not mistaken. A bit of squinting reveals it to be Georgie, and Jon realizes that the fog’s begun taking them once more. He banishes it with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, Georgie, we were wondering-”</p><p>“Oh my goodness, is that Martin?” She brushes past him and seizes Martin by the wrists. “Martin, dear, look at you! What on earth…?” She looks back at Jon. “And I’m guessing you know something?”</p><p>Jon’s grimace deepens; Georgie’s a strange one, cloaked by something Terminus gave her, and she’s always been far steadier than was reasonable. Here, too, he sees it, an absolute lack of concern where Tim and Sasha had been two steps shy of utterly terrified. “I have some ideas. Listen, Georgie. I know it isn’t really my thing, but I was wondering whether tonight’s ceremony had room for two more?”</p><p>She looks at him dubiously, then back at Martin. “You? But, wait, you think that’ll help ‘im?”</p><p>“It’s certainly a place to start.” And Jon will be able to exert more influence over Lukas’ curse there than he will even here in the library. </p><p>“Well, then sure, we’re more than happy to accommodate. And it’s Ruster, anyways, so we usually see less traffic.” She starts towing Martin behind her and Jon, still glued to his arm, has little option but to follow. </p><p>They’re taken into the back hall, where they’re allowed to access their bags and left to change. </p><p>Well, change isn’t the right word, it’s really just drawing their cloaks out of their bags and securing them over their heads, and withdrawing the crystals, books, and ritual knives necessary. Jon has to help Martin with his when he sees the man moving entirely too slowly, like time itself has shifted into halftime. </p><p>Jon has never actually stepped foot into this particular temple, but it fits the atmosphere of what he likes to see; a medium-sized concentric stadium set into the earth, with Grecian-styled steps for people to sit on and cushions interspersed throughout the chamber. Vines crawl up the walls, and the rough-hewn stone gives the rock the appearance of tree bark. A bright light, much too bright for the evening sun and yet still natural in feel, beams down from the domed ceiling, setting the room alight like a warm afternoon and catching on every bit of greenery and the stream that runs through the floor of the room, crystalline and cheerful. A large daikin sits in the carved basin in the middle of the rock guiding the stream, with its mallet laid to rest just beside it.</p><p>Jon draws Martin up to the uppermost levels of the stadium, just right of the door, where they’re least likely to draw attention. Martin follows behind him like a phantom, barely present in the moment.  </p><p>He mutters a half-hearted prayer under his breath and jams his knife into the soft ring of earth that’s built into the front of every level. Hoisting his crystal - a simple thing of cut jade, smokey and vaguely blue - to set behind the blade of the knife, Jon withdraws his book and pen. Martin, beside him, moves slowly, eyes trained on Jon’s hands. </p><p>Jon gets them settled, and makes sure that Martin won’t sink into the floor before turning his mind inwards. </p><p>He thinks he knows precisely what to do for this evening’s lesson.</p><p>The sonorous ringing of the daikin echoes in Jon’s ears, and he hears parallel ceremonies all across the world chime back. He begins his broadcast, and hopes that Martin will listen well enough to draw his own conclusions. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> This be a tale of the sea dog who rakes the shores lonely, </em></p><p>
  <em> Timore’n, onset by the man in the yoke of his grandeur, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Warns he who wanders of danger in numbers and grants </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To the true, gifts he peace, safety, but heed, this </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Solus, the source of seclusion. Aboard his Tundra, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Guides he the wretched into silence, calm silence, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lonely hush, dirty hush, deathly hush,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wary be of the devouring fogs  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and all the knowledge residing within </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That maw sows sweet words to  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> draw one in, never to leave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Freedom blooms </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With love entombed, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Under the sails of Solus.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When Jon opens his eyes and allows his stream of conscious to take hold of the sermon once more, it’s to see the whole room trembling and murmuring. Someone pats the spot of earth just in front of his knife. When Jon looks up it’s to the hood of the man leaning over the stair’s ledge. “Thare ye are, Maister. Was fearin’ ye’d win ower whan you didnae speak back. Rest o’ te room gwain half out deir minds.”</p><p>Jon doesn’t know that he’d describe the atmosphere of the ceremony quite so dire, but there is a certain energy that he’s never before seen “Yes, why?”</p><p>The man scrubs his hair through his hood. “Ah’m not faur. ‘S far as ah kin ken, this be te first Lord Eruditius e’er spake to oos. Oot o thocht, hie’d comes in wit a wird like that, like wha but him, eh?” </p><p>Jon hums, but he’s saved from having to actually reply by the chime of the bowl. “Peace, listeners.” Georgie, he can tell by the tone of her skin, wields the striker like a weapon. “We shall reflect on the Lord’s message at a later time, for now please return to inscribing.” </p><p>Jon pretends to return to his work, but in fact he’s trying to turn his mind’s eye away from the origins of Peter Lukas. </p><p>As the room settles back into their books, Martin shakes his arm, two minutes after everything has settled. “Did you hear that, Jon? It sounds... like the Lord was trying to confirm your…. guesses. And even tell us what to do!”</p><p>Jon smiles, and if it’s perhaps a little smug no one but Jon will know. Well, he glances down to where Sasha is staring at him through the shade of her hood, almost no one. “It did, didn’t it? Lunch tomorrow, then?”</p><p>Life bleeds in Martin once more; his cheeks redden. “Yeah!”</p><p>
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</p><p>And for a while, Martin’s situation improves. He comes by the library more often at Jon’s insistence, and as a compromise Jon joins him on his various excursions and wanderings outside of the library's four walls. Jon is always reluctant to let him leave, because he still hasn’t found Lukas and he’s worried that the bastard might attack Martin again. There are good days where the fog almost doesn’t keep its grasp on him, and he very nearly is back to his old, sunny self. </p><p>Then he’ll come in the next day and it will cleave to him fiercely, and Martin will be a ghost walking amongst the living once more.</p><p>It’s on one of the bad days that things reach a boiling point.</p><p>Jon can tell Martin is approaching, because the fog creeps into the library well ahead of him, just like it had that first day. Unlike then, however, there’s an intent to the way it moves that belies a sense of anger. And instead of meandering aimlessly at his feet, the brume gathers heavily around their alcove, dense and waiting with malice in the way it curls. </p><p>Martin drifts in, preceded by a blanket of fresh mist, and settles as is usual. Jon has learned to let him move at his own pace on days like this, and sits watchfully as the other man pulls his things out and scatters them on the table. There’s a haziness to his face that Jon can’t read his expression past, but his body language doesn’t betray anything like the sinister energy hissing in the miasma. When he finally pulls out a book to read, Jon relaxes and returns to his own book.</p><p>Martin’s book, thin and paperback though it is, snaps shut with a noise that is startlingly clear in the haziness of the miasma. “I suppose you all were laughing at me then?”</p><p>Jon stops, eyes glued to the book before him until the words don’t make sense. “I… beg your pardon?”</p><p>Martin rises from his chair, and once again Jon sees him for how he is: big, much bigger than Jon’s own form. He doesn’t loom, but lingers, like a behemoth half-shrouded in the fog and all the scarier for the mystery. “You and Sasha and Tim. Have a laugh while I was gone?”</p><p>Finally he turns, and Jon gets a good look at his face. He’s lost all the warmth he’d surely gained from hours in the sun, and where once his eyes were a warm hazel now sits a washed out grey; were it not for the way they burned, Jon might’ve thought Lukas had stolen his sight, as he’s done in the past to other unfortunate souls. “I haven’t the faintest- Martin are you alright? You’re acting peculiarly…”</p><p>“I suppose it isn’t surprising - god like you, what would you care about a little human like me?” His voice is bitter, acerbic, and cruel. It doesn’t suit Martin at all. He begins pacing furiously, feet disappeared into the fog. </p><p>The uncharacteristic is almost distracting enough that Jon doesn’t register what he’s said. “I… beg your pardon?”</p><p>Martin rounds on him, his body careening unnaturally. “You heard me, <em> Lord Eruditius </em>.” Jon flinches; he can’t help it, the name is like a bullet. Martin resumes his pacing. “I can’t believe I- Rah! You know how frustrating it is, to have the wool pulled over your eyes for so long by someone you prayed to? How betrayed? All those times I wondered if you were listening, and you were. Right. Here. The whole time.”  </p><p>Jon’s breath stutters. “Martin, I-” </p><p>“And to <em> think </em> , I’ve trusted you this whole time, <em> respected </em>you even, and you’ve just been here hiding away everything!” To Jon’s horror, he can see tears start to track down Martin’s face, making his already washed out eyes all the glassier for water in them. “What, was I just not worth it for you? Was I not good enough to save? Answer me, Jon!”</p><p>And no, that isn’t it. Jon wants to deny it with every fibre of his being, how none of his eyes had seen a trace of Martin in his entire absence. </p><p>“I’m not, I’m not a god who can save people, Martin!” He’s known this and even accepted it to a degree, but never has it frustrated him like it had when he’d failed Martin. </p><p>He continues before he loses his voice. “That’s not what I do, not how I work. All I can do is tell you how to save yourself, give you the knowledge. The doing, that’s, that’s entirely up to you.” Jon feels his breath hiccough in his chest, and tries to breathe through the pain. He looks down to the ground, and whispers, “But I looked for you.”</p><p>“...You did?” He looks small again, like disbelief has squeezed every ounce of his anger. </p><p>“Well, of course I did, Martin!” Jon blusters. Like that was even a question, for the one human Jon had found capable of matching his wits. They were- friends, yes, though the word had never fit Jon very well. “I looked for you every day, as the sun was in the sky. If I had found you, I swear,” Jon forces Martin to meet his eyes with a hand on his shoulder and as much urgency as he believes himself able to express. They’re still wet, and still grey. “I would have been at your side in an instant. But Solus- Lukas is very good at hiding things when he wants to.” </p><p>“Lukas?”</p><p>Jon grimaces and withdraws. “We can’t all go around referring to one another with the names of gods. For one thing, it gets rather conspicuous, but also, we’re people too.” And they are more than their titles and their duties; they can exist outside of the hearts of people.</p><p>Martin slumps down in his chair, all the fight draining out of him. Jon encourages the light streaming in through the window to burn a little stronger, and with enough effort the alcove is clear once more. “Thanks.” Martin mutters. “Fine, then. But, can you at least tell me, why me?”</p><p>“I’m, not certain. Lukas talks more to Elias than me.” But if Jon had to make a guess on why Martin had become his target, he’d say that he’d been just a little too obvious with his partiality for this particular human. Lukas’ must’ve picked up on that, and, because of his current row with Elias, decided to vent his frustrations on the two of them. </p><p>Even now, shrouded in the murk as he is, Martin’s heart bears the mark of one of the Erudites, those who are especially devoted to Jon’s way of life. It burns like a beacon to Jon’s senses, though Jon’s learned well to ignore such things after spending so long in the seat of his power. </p><p>Others, however, might not be so kind. </p><p>Jon might have left it at that, if not for the wary look still haunting Martin’s glassy eyes. “But, I imagine it has something to do with me, since we’re friends and all.”</p><p>Martin slouches more into his seat, arms boneless in his lap. “...You really would have come to find me?” </p><p>“As sure as Odysseus sailed for home.” Jons again, because the fog may have been evaporated but the gloom still clings to Martin like a second skin. “Martin, I truly am sorry. The deception wasn’t meant to hurt you, but it has all the same.”</p><p>Martin snorts, a dry and wrung out sound that doesn’t suit the old Martin but blends in with this new one all too well. “You’re not the first to lie to my face, and you won’t be the last. Even if it was for a pretty good reason.” </p><p>Jon nods. “Do you think, perhaps you could give me a chance to correct my mistakes?”</p><p>Martin watches him, eyes less wary but no less distant. “What did you have in mind?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Caves in the Maros-Pangkep Karst are an ancient wonder, a sort of natural holy site that Jon finds himself drifting back towards every so often. </p><p>A sneaky bit of magic had brought them stepping through some back-area library doors into the waking countryside of Indonesia. Jon had briskly guided Martin towards the system of caves, and stepped inside after paying the entrance fee.</p><p>They step into one of the areas marked for public observation, entirely alone in the cool dampness of the half-lit caves. “This. I wanted to share, well, this with you.”</p><p>Martin looks dubiously at the wall, more aware than yesterday but still wan and washed out. “Ancient.. Cave paintings?” </p><p>Jon was born here, in these walls, in the desire of humankind to tell stories and share information, in their marking the passage of time and the way animals move with the seasons. </p><p>He hasn’t brought anyone here before.</p><p>Still, Jon finds his confusion more amusing than anything, and snorts at him. “Yes, Martin. Was actually what I was reading yesterday. I always find myself drifting back here.” </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>“Feels like home. They say these ones are around thirty-five thousand years old.” Jon can’t bring himself to touch them, lest he harm them where the years could not. “Hard to believe it’s already been so long.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Martin looks at the abundance of animal pictures strewn about the walls, then towards the numerous depictions of people’s hands, layered overtop one another, a testimony to lives lived eons ago. “Any of these yours?”</p><p>Jon hums, scanning the wall. Probably… He gestures to the stretch of wall about the height of Martin’s waist. “There, maybe?”</p><p>Martin’s eyes drift down to the wall and track through the assortment of hands. Every now and again he’ll glance back at Jon, as though comparing the size and shape of his hands to those he sees on the wall. He even lifts his own hand to compare it against those on the wall, and Jon can’t help but find it a bit charming when he drops his hand in disappointment. “Why are we here, Jon?”</p><p>“I guess I just, wanted to prove to you that I wasn’t the sort to abandon you. That I’ve always been here, and I plan to do so in the future.” Jon gestures again at the hands, tens of thousands of years old and proof that Jon means what he says. “I thought this might be proof enough.” </p><p>After a moment of silence and stillness, however, Jon realizes Martin’s eyes have ceased moving and are fixed on a particular span of wall, and Jon shifts over to see what has him fixated so. “What do you see, Martin?”</p><p>His hand comes up to trace an image, inches away from the wall. “I see… you.” </p><p>“I- What?”</p><p>“I see you, Jon, right here.” He gestures at a figure on the wall. “Maybe this one isn’t you exactly, but you’ve, you’ve really been here all along, huh?” <em> You never left us behind. Never left me behind. </em> Martin steps away from the wall, closer to Jon than he’s been of his own accord since he came back to the library. He looks like he has something he’s burning to say. </p><p>Jon’s head tilts back, waiting. </p><p>“Say, uh, Jon?” </p><p>“Yes, Martin?” </p><p>He can hear the man gulp, and sees his eyes dart to the side and squeeze shut. “Are there, uh, any, oh I don’t know, consequences for kissing a god?”</p><p>Jon feels his cheeks burn red before he can properly process the question. “Uh, I mean, I don’t know. Definitely not to my Knowledge, though.” Jon feels his lips wobble, with a laugh or a smile he can’t rightly say. “What god did you have in mind?”</p><p>Martin’s hand comes up to cup his cheek. “Oh, just the one who’s more or less promised me forever.” He shifts a little closer, and now Jon can see that his eyes are back to their warm hazel, the flecks of green and gold impossible to miss at this distance. “I did hear that correctly, right?”</p><p>Jon chuckles, and leans up the rest of the way, to mutter against Martin’s lips, “Yes, Martin. You most certainly did.”</p><p>
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</p><p>The smell of aging paper and leather greets him like an old friend when he steps past the heavy oak doors. </p><p>He strides with purpose past the desk, nodding to Tim as he passes; Tim nods back just this side of respectful, like he knows he’s being belligerent and there’s nothing Jon can or will do about it. He is, regrettably, correct, and Jon charges right past him, into the grasp of the bookshelves.  </p><p>He has a stack of books waiting for him on a warm sunlit table in the back, ready for him to devour. And a warm person to read them with.</p><p>He emerges from the ceiling high shelves into an alcove bathed in light, and for once it isn’t his potential readings stealing his breath, it’s Martin. </p><p>Never before has Jon seen a human so perfectly highlighted by the sunlight. The warm rays floating in through the window cradle his jaw and set the whole round of his face aglow. Little rays of light catch in Martin’s brown eyes and bring out the greens and golds that shimmer in their depths. Martin’s pink cardigan, so silly any other day, blooms like a new flower in the warm spring sunlight. </p><p>For all that Jon is a god of sunlight, he knows he’s never fit the warm rays quite so well as Martin, and for all the books he’s e’er read and all the lives he’s e’er lead, he’s never known a feeling quite like this.</p><p>And then the vision looks up at him, and breathes. “Jon… L-Lovely morning!!”</p><p>“Yes, Martin, I do believe it is.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Hols Wolf! I hope you recall how much I was terrified of how long this thing could be, and that it puts a smile on your face. </p><p>Also, Art, if you're reading this: Nyeh! I finished, but at what cost...</p><p>I'm sorry it took me so long to write something for this fandom. I've actually been here for a year but I've never had the right idea....</p><p>The Solus’ bit was written, to the best of my ability, in Dactylic Decreasing Pentameter. I’m quite proud of it! And in a hilarious coincidence, I didn't realize until I was looking for details on Peter that the company he sails for in Canon is called Solus! I just got that name from Google Translate.</p><p>Translated Scots (I did my best using an online reference site, so apologies if it sounds off or unnatural!)<br/>Thare ye are, Maister. Was fearin’ ye’d win ower whan you didnae speak back. Rest o’ te room gwain half out deir minds. = There you are, mister. Was afraid you were asleep when you didn’t respond. The rest of the room is going half out of their minds.<br/>Ah’m not faur. ‘S far as ah kin ken, this be te first Lord Eruditius e’er spake to oos. Oot o thocht, hie’d comes in wit a wird like that, like wha but him, eh? = I’m not certain. As far as I can tell, this is the first time Lord Eruditius has ever spoken to us. Who’d have thought, the first thing he tells us is a story like that, bold as brass, huh?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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